


Sackcloth and Ashes

by slipsthrufingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Still rowin'?, Where Is Gendry?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/pseuds/slipsthrufingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had intended to go to the Night's Watch once, long ago... Perhaps he would make it this time.</p>
<p>What happened to Gendry after he was freed by Davos?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

He rowed as hard and as far as he could, as Ser Davos had directed, for more than a full night, day and another night again, before finally succumbing to exhaustion. He had no idea how far he’d travelled, but was too tired to care about much of anything anymore. 

It didn’t take long for the cliff-faces that surrounded Dragonstone to blur together into one immense, never-ending wall, that it seemed he would never reach the end of. But as dawn broke, the monotonous stone gave way to a small, sheltered cove, with a rocky beach circling the insides. Gendry angled the small skiff toward the shore and, when he was close enough, with great effort, for his arms were already burning with exhaustion, he pulled it from the water and as close to the rock walls as he could.

The cliff-faces remained high around him, which hopefully protected him (and the boat) from any scouting eyes who might’ve glanced off the edge. And the wind that had whipped up when the sun had set, didn’t penetrate through the gates of the inlet. It was as good a place as any he would find to rest. If the Red Woman and Stannis truly wanted him, well, he didn’t care any longer. He needed rest.

He curled up beneath an overhanging crag of rock, wrapping the cloak as tightly around him as he could, and closed his eyes.

And he slept.

His dreams were disturbed, fraught with all the worst moments in his life; the death of his mother, her skin covered with oozing pustules; the Mountain and his men, torturing and killing villages at Harrenhall; the Red Woman and her leeches; Arya’s face, twisted into a look of utter betrayal, abandoned once again. He woke reluctantly with the dawn, his stomach almost pulsating with hunger, his mouth dry as leather and salty from the sea-breeze which had returned with a vengeance. 

He sat up slowly, and pushed the dreams from his mind as best he could. His arm and shoulders ached from the previous day’s exertions, but he knew there was little to be done for it. Davos had spoken true when he said he shouldn’t stop until he reached King’s Landing, but he had no idea how far away that would be. 

The wineskin was where he had left it and he forced himself not to gulp all of the fresh cool water in one go. He limited himself to two long pulls then replaced the stopper. It needed to last him for longer before he could find a freshwater source to refill it. The bread was stale, but he ripped a roll in half and ate it anyway, staring not so much at the endless blue of the Narrow Sea that stretched out before him, but at the path his life had taken so far, wondering how in seven hells he had got himself into this mess. Whether there was some sin or wrong in his past so great that the Gods saw fit to punish him… Or perhaps it was not his sin, but the many great sins of his father. It seemed to him that the man who sired him, King or no, had probably caused more problems than he’d solved while ruling the kingdom. 

He had never before been particularly interested in who his father was, but now he knew, and now that it had brought so much trouble his way, he was determined not to let his blood direct the course of his life. A Baratheon had sired him, and he had been hunted down for it. Another Baratheon had found him, and he had been tortured for it. So many lives ruined, Yoren and Lommy and all those others bound for the wall, all because his of his godsforsaken father’s blood. He would not be another Baratheon, who would take advantage of all those who might find themselves in his way. He would not be another Baratheon who would kill, or torture, or abandon those who would need their help. 

Once, he had been bound for The Wall. It had seemed to be the only option for a bastard orphan from Flea Bottom who needed to escape King’s Landing. He hadn’t particularly looked forward to the life of celibacy and service, but the anonymity and righteousness of the work appealed to him now. Being a member of The Night’s Watch would give him purpose, and perhaps, it could even give him an opportunity to repent for his sins, and the sins of his father. And he would never have reason, accidentally or no, to pass his cursed blood along to future generations. 

Gendry finished the ration of bread, made water against the cliff face, then dragged the boat back to the water’s edge. He still had a long way to row.


	2. Chapter 1 - Safe Harbour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry reaches land and has to decide what path he will take.

Rook’s Rest was a quiet little port town that, like so many other small towns and villages in Westeros, had transformed into a ghost town. It was dawn when Gendry walked down the cobblestone street, and the eerie half-light, combined with the morning mist of the bay lent the town a somewhat creepy atmosphere. There wasn’t another single soul to be seen. In King’s Landing, despite all it’s flaws, you could never really feel alone. There was always someone else in the streets, no matter what time of day. Sometimes they were bakers, heading to work before the breaking light of day, sometimes it was whores, sulking home after a long night. 

It discomforted him.

Some of the inns and shopfronts along the main street had been boarded up, others abandoned outright. A few had clearly been pillaged. Doors swung off broken hinges, the wind buffeting them in staccato beat against the stone walls of the buildings.   
Gendry carefully explored one, stepping over the threshold and out of the wind. It had once been a cobbler. There were no shoes or boots to be seen, but behind the sturdy bench, wooden moulds of feet hung from hooks along the wall. Most were paired, though a few lonely feet had fallen to the floor, perhaps knocked down by scavengers, looking for anything valuable left behind by the merchant who had abandoned it in the first place. There was a small doorway off to the side, with stairs to the second floor, probably where the Cobbler and his family had lived. Gendry ascended quietly, reverently, as though walking through a graveyard. He had never been one to believe in spirits, but also didn’t feel he could afford to offend the gods any further than he clearly already had. 

He was right to guess it was living quarters. From what he could tell, the cobbler had lived alone. There was a small kitchen on one side. A cauldron had fallen from its hook into the ashes of the hearth and no one had bothered to rehang it. Jars lined a shelf above a small work bench, where a single bowl and spoon lay neatly next to a mug. Gendry inspected the jars hoping for some food, but they were empty. 

In the other corner, there was a straw pallet covered in threadbare blankets and next to it a small crate that the cobbler had used as a side table. There was a small candle stub buried in a well-established mound of wax, and lying next to it was a small leather-bound book, propped open as though the cobbler was marking the page.

Gendry sat down on the pallet, removed his shoes, and his leather jerkin and breeches, then slid his feet between the blankets, relishing the feel of a softer fabric on his skin. After a week of rowing and sleeping rough, the rough-spun wool was heavenly. He laid back on the bed, and in a moment of curiosity, reached for the book.

It was a poetical account of Durran Godsgrief, who won the love of Elenei, the child of the gods of the wind and the sea. Tobho Mott had taught Gendry his letters, and he had grown proficient at reading instructions and histories, particularly to do with metal work, all in the name of expanding his expertise as a smithy, but Gendry had never had time for poetry. It served no purpose for a baseborn tradesman like him, except to tease Arya about her reluctant knowledge of poets. She had claimed to hate poetry— her sister was the poet, not her— but she still was the only one who knew all the words to Florian and Jonquil. 

He sighed and returned the book to the crate, and though he knew the owner would never return for it, he left the book propped open on the same page he had found it before he slept.

***

A few hours later, feeling much better for the bed and the sleep, Gendry emerged from the Cobbler’s abode into a slightly more lively Rook’s Rest. From the position of the sun, he guessed it was about mid-afternoon, and a few shops were doing a modest trade. 

He decided to keep exploring the town a little, while keeping an eye out for opportunities to earn himself some money. If he wanted to get to the Wall, he would need a horse, and if he wanted a horse he needed coin. He also needed food, but he wasn’t worried. While the town was more lively during the day than it had been at dawn, one thing he did notice was a distinct lack of menfolk. They were here, it wasn’t a town full of women, but the ones he did see were either barely past their tenth nameday, or had seen more than half a century of them. Gendry figured the rest had been conscripted to one of the Baratheon armies during the war; perhaps they were still fighting his uncle’s battles. 

If that many men were missing, they would be in need of an able-bodied hand around town. He was sure he could be of service to someone or other; the trick would be maintaining anonymity.

After walking for about five minutes, he came across an inn that seemed to thriving in spite of the town. Several horses were tied up near a trough just outside, and the smell of woodsmoke, bread and manure bespoke a homey touch. It looked to be the sort of place travellers would stop for supplies. Innkeeps in this sort of place knew everything that was going on in their town, and would hopefully be able to steer him in the direction of work and coin.

He was right.

The innkeep, a portly man named Garrick, was wearing a stained apron and a pox-marked, yet kind face, and accepted, without question, Gendry’s mummer story, that he had been robbed by bandits on the road from Maidenpool. It explained why he had no money and they’d stolen his horse, but he was a trained smithy, had worked as a farrier, and needed money so he could eventually make his way to Harrenhall where a cousin had secured him work repairing the castle.

To Gendry’s surprise, the innkeep gave him a mug of ale and a bit of cheese and bread, and then a job right then and there. Garrick told him that for years they had employed their own farrier to work out of the stable, but last year Torret had left to join Stannis’s army and had burned in the depths of Blackwater Bay, along with half the rest of the men in town. 

When Gendry polished off the meal, he was immediately conscripted to work on shoeing the stable dray they kept at the inn. It was a big, hairy, neglected thing, but docile enough, and after fixing the poor beast’s hooves, he searched around the stable before he found the groom’s brushes, and began working on the matts of hair in the her mane. When he was done, he mucked out her stall, laid down fresh straw and sawdust and led her back inside.

Within a few weeks, it was as though he had never worked anywhere else, he was so settled working for Garrick at the inn. He was right in his assumption that Rook’s Rest was not the bustling port town it had been before the war began, but wrong to assume it meant the town was a ghost town. Regular ships from King’s Landing made port in the bay on their way to Gulltown, Maidenpool, even to Braavos. With each ship anchored in the harbour, came sailors buying and selling their wares, and travellers and merchants with whom they bartered.

Once a month the main street came alive with a temporary market. Inland merchants arrived, stalls were erected, and the inn’s rooms were filled with guests. These were the weeks that Gendry was the busiest. He still mostly worked as a farrier who also ran the stable, but Garrick had a perfectly respectable forge in a thatched hut. It was small, much smaller than Tobho Mott’s forge had been, but big enough for the simple armour repairs the inn’s guests occasionally required. If anyone noticed his repairs were of a quality rarely seen outside the Street of Steel in King’s Landing, no one commented. Certainly, no one complained, and Garrick had been heard to boast that he was the luckiest innkeep this side of the King’s Road to have found “Jon” when he had.

Gendry had nothing to complain about. His belly was always full, he was earning steady coin; at this rate he’d be able to afford a perfectly respectable palfrey within the year. His work kept him hidden most of the day, and he had let his whiskers grow out into a full beard which hid his Baratheon jaw as well as he ever would be able to. Other than Garrick, and Tandy, the serving girl he employed, he mostly only spoke to Tom, the stablehand. Garrick allowed him to live in the loft above the stable, and as Tandy brought him most of his meals, he was able to maintain the anonymity he needed for the present.

Because along with the sailors and the merchants, there were always soldiers. Mostly, the soldiers belonged to Stannis, though occasionally a garrison of Lannister men made it that east from Harrenhall. Anytime he saw the yellow Baratheon banner, or a the red cape of the Lannisters, he retreated into the forge or the loft, leaving Tom to stable the horses without him. If Tom noticed this pattern, he never said, or at least never asked Gendry about it.

Instead, Tom pestered him about smithing. “How old was you when you learned?” He asked, shovelling straw and manure out of the last stall.

Gendry cocked his head, trying to remember. “Nine, I think. Maybe a bit younger.”

Tom, who was going on ten and two, looked downcast.

“I started early though. Most others I know usually start at three or four and ten,” He said, running his hand gently down the leg of the horse, past the knee, before firmly tugging the fetlock. The mare lifted her foot obediently. Gendry murmured soft words of praise at the horse, as he retrieved his clinch cutter and hammer from his belt.

“Can you teach me?” Tom asked, and Gendry was reminded of another twelve year old pain in his ass, who would always bother him with questions. “I’ve always wanted to be a smithy.”

“I don’t think I’d make a very good teacher.” Gendry said honestly. Tom made a disbelieving noise of protest. The boy held him in quite high esteem, for someone he had only known a few months. 

“You’d be the best teacher!” Tom said.

“I didn’t finish my training for a start. I had only just been allowed to work on swords when my master fired me.”

“Why were you fired?” 

Gendry paused, taking advantage of the noise of breaking the nail clinches to delay his response. Tobho Mott hadn’t fired him. He had forced him to leave when yet another Hand of the King was killed. One who had come looking for Gendry, not weeks beforehand. Tobho was smarter than most folks gave him credit for, and it was he that had suggested the Night’s Watch as his best way out of the city.

“Master died. The pox.” He said finally, giving his old master his mother’s death. He felt somewhat guilty for it, as though he was dishonouring Tobho in some way for manufacturing him a death, when he was the main reason Gendry still lived today.

“Garrick had the pox when he was young,” said Tom, “It’s what happened to his nose. You know, the hole in the side?”

“He was lucky to survive it.” Gendry said, finally removing the shoe completely with a deliberate yank. “Cities are bad places for people to live. Everyone living in each other’s pockets like that. It’s not natural. I’m happy to be out.”

And it was the truth. He might miss Tobho, and his old life, but this quiet village life was much more to his liking. Rook’s Rest had been as restful as its name implied, and he knew he would miss it, when he eventually left and headed north to the wall to take the black. 

That was what he needed to keep in mind. It would be easy to fall into a routine, here, and find himself staying. Find himself teaching Tom to forge, revealing more about his past to Gerrick and Tandy… Find himself settling.

But he couldn’t. Just as cities were bad places to live, he was bad to be around. No. He wouldn’t get comfortable. He would work here only long enough to save up for a horse and supplies, and then he would travel to the wall as he intended. Where his blood wouldn’t matter, and wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who reviewed and gave me kudos. You've kept a smile on my face all day :) Thank you to regents for all her encouragement and support while writing this.


	3. Chapter 2 - Bad Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News in Westeros moves slowly, but that doesn't make it any less devastating.

“We’ll need your help in the inn tonight, Jon.” Tandy said to him one day, finding him in the forge. “We’re all booked out and Garrick looks about ready to keel over. I’ve sent him up to bed.”

“He didn’t look well earlier.” Gendry said, 

“He hasn’t looked well in days.” The girl said, crossing her arms across her chest. “If he keeps this up, he’ll kill himself.”

Gendry made a noise of agreement, and hefted the metal from the heat of the forge onto the anvil. “I’ll be over as soon as I’ve finished this chest plate.” He said. Tandy scowled at him, and he wondered what he’d said to make her so cranky, but still nodded acceptance, then gathered her skirts and returned back to the main inn.

Knowing that Tandy was in a bad mood, he finished his work on the chest plate as quickly as he could. As a result, the repair wasn’t his neatest work, but it would hold and was still better work than most of the repair work he’d seen from other smiths. He only tidied up as much as he needed to to ensure that the forge wouldn’t burn down, wiped his hands and face of as much soot, sweat and grease as he could, and made his way back over to the main inn.

Immediately he saw why Tandy had been annoyed. She was swamped— the inn was packed to the brim with travellers. He couldn’t see a single chair that wasn’t filled, and there were a few people standing at the counter drinking from tankards. Tandy herself was bustling between tables, collecting empty bowls and plates on a stack as she went. She thrust them into his hands as soon as she saw him.

“Take these back to the kitchen. I have Tom scrubbing them so we’ll have some more clean ones. We’ve run out of ale, and that table over there wants warm mead, so you’ll need to get that from the cellars.” She said, before bustling her way back over to the counter, where some crofters were, waving their empty tankards angrily in her direction.

Gendry knew that this was one of those times where he just did as he was told. He took the dirty crockery back into the kitchen, dumping it all onto the bench beside Tom.

“We need some mead warmed,” He said to the boy over his shoulder, as he retreated down the stairs into the cellar. It wasn’t uncommon for Garrick or Tandy to ask for his help with the casks— he was much bigger and stronger than either of them, and for them it was a two-person job. He hoisted the cask onto his shoulder and carried it back out into the main bar. 

“Tom is setting a pot of mead on the fire.” He said, as Tandy made quick work of the tap and was already steeping two new mugs of the brew for the demanding crofters.

Gendry got out of her way, and made his way through the tables, collecting plates and bowls that Tandy had missed on her first run through. The next few hours were a blur of shouted orders, spilt beer and suppressing fights. Gendry didn’t throw any punches, but between his sheer size, and the intimidating scruff of his full-grown black beard, few patrons ever gave him much cheek and so it was easy work to send this or that fellow off to his bedroll.

It was well past midnight before he or Tandy had a chance to speak to each other beyond a few barked words. Most of the patrons had either retreated to their rooms, or had fallen asleep at the tables. A few still remained in the corner of the room, but they talked quietly, heads bowed close together, nursing their final mugs of mead.

Tandy had finally found herself a seat, resting on one of the bar stools kept by the counter, a mug of her own. Gendry pulled up a stool next to her, relieved to finally be able to sit himself.

“Thank you,” Tandy said, the weariness in her voice tempered with genuine gratitude.

“It was nothing.” Gendry said, waving away her thanks. 

“I’ve never seen the place so busy.” Tandy said, then took a sip of the beer. “You held your own better than I thought.”

Gendry chuckled. “I should hope so. My mum was a tavern wench. I was taught from a very young age how to make myself useful in a place like this. Or how to get out of the way. Mostly the latter.”

Tandy smiled, “Well you were a great help to me and Tom today. If I were Garrick, I’d have you working out the front here with me every day, not out in that dusty forge.”

“I like the forge!” Gendry protested.

“You may well do, but you’re useful here too. And I expect we’re in for a few more busy nights from now on.”

“Oh?” 

“Some folk’ve been saying the wars are over. Soldiers will be coming home,” She explained, and it was more than just the low lighting that made her eyes flicker a little. 

Normally, Gendry would’ve let it go. He was happy to leave his questions unasked, as it meant fewer were asked of him, but it had been a long, long day, and longer still since he had had a conversation about anything other than horses or steel. “You waiting on someone to return home?” he guessed.

Tandy’s cheeks flushed red, and she buried her nose in her mug, mumbling a name he didn’t catch.

“What was that?” He laughed, and poked her gently on the shoulder.

She took a moment and somewhat composed herself, before she said rather primly, “No one specifically.”

“Right. And if I were to ask Tom who you’re waiting on, he wouldn’t know anything?” They both knew that Tom was an insatiable gossip.

“It’s just my neighbour, Steffon. He joined King Renly’s army, and it’d be good to have him home again. He’d often help me and mam out about the place. He helped thatch our roof when it sprung a leak.”

Gendry raised an eyebrow, and took a pointed gulp of ale from his own mug.

Tandy changed the topic “Anyway, since the Red Wedding, the Stark army has disbanded, so I imagine most soldiers will either head to Dragonstone to join up with Stannis or head home.”

His stomach dropped like he’d swallowed a dragon’s egg. “The Red Wedding?” He asked, his heart hammering so forcefully in his chest that it was a wonder Tandy didn’t hear it. He forced himself to ask calmly, “What happened to the Starks?”

“The Freys and the Lannisters ambushed Lord Edmure Tully’s wedding.” Tandy’s face twisted into one of distaste. “Robb Stark is dead, so they say. And his wife and lady mother, and most of his banner men.” 

“At a wedding?”

“Aye. Mam says the gods frown on such things. Inviting folk under your roof in the name of breaking bread, only to murder them instead. It’s a foul thing to do.”

Gendry felt as though the bread roll and cheese he’d scoffed for supper would come back up. _My name’s not Arry… It’s Arya. Of House Stark._ the ghostly voice echoed in his brain. _My mother was a lady… and my sister._

“And it’s not just that— I heard they’ve been desecrating the bodies. Did you know the Starks kept wolfs as pets?” Tandy said.

“Direwolves,” he corrected, absently.

“I always figured that was highborn nonsense.” Tandy said, and shrugged. “It’s fantastical enough for them to keep wolves as pets, rather than dogs like the rest of us. Then they go telling everyone they keep mythical beasts as pets? Seems a little farfetched to me. Anyway, they killed Robb Stark’s wolf and sewed its head onto—are you alright?”

“Yeah,” He said, and scrubbed his face hard with his hands, willing some colour back into his cheeks. “Just tired… I’ll go to bed, if you don’t need me anymore?”

Tandy eyed him, but nodded anyway. “Alright.”

“I’ll be up early to help clear out the rabble,” He promised, and then left before Tandy could say anymore. He made it halfway to the stables before he vomited, choking and coughing on the sweet yeasty mush. It poured out of him as though he were poisoned. His skin crawled, pebbled with goosebumps, and flushed so cold that despite the temperate weather, he began to shiver, and all that ran through his head was _Arya_.

_Arya. Where are you? Arya?_

He thought back, heart breaking, to the last glimpse of her face he had seen, while strapped into Melisandre’s godsforsaken cart. The betrayal. The hurt. The loss. If she ever found out what happened to her brother and mother, it would be so much worse than his leaving had ever been. That little girl didn’t deserve that, highborn or no. No one deserved to live without a mother, or a father, without family to rely upon, to protect you. _I could be your family_. She’d whispered, and he wished, wished that he could turn back the days and return to that moment and say _yes_. He’d turned her down for the Brotherhood, who had promptly sold him the next day to her.

And then he remembered _his voice_ , saying three names into the hissing fire. _Balon Greyjoy. Joffrey Baratheon. Robb Stark._

King’s blood. His godsforsaken king’s blood had done this.

He retched again, against the side of the stable, forearm resting on the wood of the building. The shaking was worse.

 _Come fight death with me_. The she’d said, before mounting him, grinding into him, kissing him, caressing him… Bleeding him.

But he was death. His blood meant death. The Hand of the King. Lord and Lady Stark. The King in the North… Would he be the next Kingslayer? Would Joffrey Baratheon topple thanks to the curse of his blood? Balon Greyjoy?… And what of Arya? 

He was shaking so badly at that point, he worried he would wake the horses, and knew that if he stayed out here any longer, he risked being found by Tandy and her inevitable questions. He stumbled into the stables, and up into the loft. He curled beneath blankets and furs, covering his head, shielding himself from the world around him. But he did not sleep.

He dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all your wonderful comments and kudos. I am keeping the timeline of this as realistic as I can-- based on the show. Gendry will eventually be reuinted with several people from his past (some he wants to meet again, some he doesn't) but it might be a long time coming for _some_ reunions... But that also doesn't mean he won't think about them...


	4. Chapter 3 - Crossed Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry begins his travels northward, and learns some news on the road...

“Thank you, for all that you have done for me.” Garrick said fondly, pulling Gendry into a warm hug.

“No.” Gendry protested, “It is me that should be thanking you.”

They stood outside the inn, Garrick wearing his usual dirty apron, and Gendry in a newly purchased travelling cloak. His palfrey, a docile mare that had come with the uninspiring name Batty, was already saddled and waiting nearby.

“You do not have to go.” Garrick said, not for the first time. Ever since Gendry had purchased Batty and had given his boss notice, Garrick had been saying and doing anything he could to attempt to convince Gendry to stay on. But Gendry’s path was fixed. He had already stayed too long in Rook’s Rest as it was. 

“I’m sure one day we will meet again,” Gendry said warmly, knowing it would never truly happen if he made it to the wall as he planned. Garrick, however, seemed to take him at his word and smiled, so he turned next to farewell Tom.

The young stable-hand looked a little moist at the eyes, but there was not a hint of it in his voice as he said, “You’d best write us.” 

“I’ll try,” Gendry promised, honestly enough. Once he reached the wall, he hardly saw the harm in sending a letter every now and then.

“When you come back and visit, I’ll be as muscly as you,” He said. “I’ll have to carry the ale barrels myself.”

Gendry chuckled, and squeezed his bicep fondly, “Well you are the strongest,” he said, then hugged him as well. If he had ever had a brother, he imagined that she would’ve been much like Tom. “Look after them, won’t you?” He whispered into his ear, before letting him go.

“I will,” Tom said seriously, and Gendry ruffled his hair for the last time.

He turned last to Tandy, who unlike Tom and Garrick, had taken his announcement calmly, as though he were simply announcing that it was a Tuesday. Even now, she had an impassive look on her face.

“Any last chores for me?” He asked, hoping to get at least a little smile out of her, but it did not work. Instead, she reached a hand up and tugged, rather hard, on his dark black hair which had grown long enough for him to need to tie it back with a strip of leather to keep it off his face.

“I still think you should let me cut your hair before you go.” She said, frowning. “How will your cousin recognise you with that animal on your head?”

It was exactly that that Gendry was hoping would protect his identity. In every story he had heard of Renly or his lord Father Robert, they had always been described as handsome and clean-shaven. For all he had looked alike his uncle and father, this was one thing he could do to hide him from inquiring eyes.

“They’d hardly be family if they didn’t recognise me for a bit of hair.” Gendry said, rubbing his long beard.

“If you say so,” Tandy said. “You’d best ride safe.”

“I will.” Gendry said, nodding, “I can take care of myself.”

Tandy nodded back, then quickly hugged him around the neck, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. The skin tingled a bit where her lips had touched, but she pulled away and took a safe step back before he had the chance to return the gesture. 

“Look, before long you’ll forget I was ever here.” Gendry said, as he turned around and gathered the reins to mount. Tom was there at his side to hold the horse still as he fed his foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself astride the mare.

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me.” Gendry said, feeling the need to say it one last time.

“And you for us,” Garrick nodded. “May the seven watch over you and keep you safe.”

“And I will be sure to recommend this place to any travellers I meet.” Gendry said, meaning it honestly. He pulled at the reins and directed Batty towards the road. They began their long journey, first to Harrenhall, and then North. He turned around, and waved one last time back at his friends, but vowed to never look back to them again.

So he rode on.

***

Mostly as he travelled he stuck to the path. He knew it wasn’t the safest method of travel for someone alone, as he was, but he had no knowledge of the area, nor any map to guide him. Unless he wanted to end up in Lannisport, he knew it was best to stick to the road he knew would get him where he wanted to go. And he wasn’t the most appealing target for brigands. 

The months of steady, hearty food, and hard work in the forge had given him back his strength and his bulk. While he had travelled with Arya and the Brotherhood, they had trained him to make sure he was capable of defending himself, and while he would never be very talented with a sword, he did carry with him a hammer and a sharp axe, both heavy and dangerous when wielded in a fight. He also had a few knives strapped around his person, all easy to access and discretely placed, in case anyone got too close.

His saddlebags were well supplied, courtesy of Tom and Tandy and Garrick had insisted on giving him a few extra coins when he had last issued wages. Gendry had tried to refuse them, but Garrick had been deaf to his protests. The money would be needed, the further he travelled towards the Wall. He could tell it was getting colder, and knew that travelling north during an oncoming winter was the act of a fool, but he still wasn’t persuaded. He had coin, and coin would buy warmer clothes and more supplies as he needed them. If it came to it, he was sure to be able to find work as he had done in Rook’s Rest and replenish his supplies if it was needed.

But still, he was careful about his rations. He had no skills useful in hunting; no bow or crossbow that he could use, nor any knowledge of how to set traps for rabbits. He knew a little about edible plants from his time in the Brotherhood, but the foliage here was very different to that in the river lands. He could never find any familiar plants when foraging.

So he subsisted on the jerky, bread, hard cheese and dried fruits that Tandy had packed for him. The bread didn’t last long, but she had also packed him some leaves, that when boiled in water over a fire at night brewed into a warming, hearty tea.

At night he would make camp off the side of the road, preferring woody encampments to open plans, for the protection and privacy they offered. He would let Batty graze freely— she was docile enough to never stray far from wherever he was — and collect wood and kindling for his fire. He’d brew his tea, sometimes toast the bread he had left to overcome its staleness, and then lay out his bedroll close enough to absorb the heat it emitted throughout the night. 

He slept more peacefully there, out under the stars, than he had on his straw pallet in the stables. Perhaps it was because he was moving once more, that whatever Baratheon soldiers who might still be looking for him, were just that much further away from him as he inched away from Dragonstone. It didn’t worry him much that he was heading straight into Lannister occupied territory. Davos had been right about that much— while they may want his head, they had no idea what it looked like. And as long as he kept his beard and hair long, any resemblance to Baratheons, living or dead, would be easy enough to hide.

It was somewhat of a curiosity to him, why he slept so well. When he had first made camp with Yoren and the rest of the men bound for the Wall, he hadn’t slept a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined bugs and snakes and all other sorts of nightmarish creepy crawlies scampering all over his skin during the night. He had never been one who much liked critters, and it had taken him a while to get used to sleeping on a bed roll rather than a bed. 

And then there had been Arya and her chanting. She had always slept close by him, sometimes squeezed up against him if it were a particularly cold night. But she would always chant those names before she could drift off, and unless he were asleep before she started her morbid prayers, he would find himself unable to find any rest.

He knew how seriously she took those names because of how tense would be. More than once he had watched her, surreptitiously, as she went through her evening ritual. Her hands gripped at her chest, or if it was a cooler evening, her fingers clenched the edge of her thin blanket, holding on so tightly that they shook slightly. He could see the tendons in her neck bulging out, quivering with her intense, bridled rage… Until she finally finished her recitations. And then she was like a puppet whose strings were cut. She would relax. She would close her eyes, breathe deeply, and then fall into a sleep so deep that The Mountain himself would have struggled to wake her from it. Her face would finally soften, in the expressionless mask of sleep, and truly show just how much of a child she was. Gendry knew he was not much older than her, in the true scheme of things. But she had seen so much pain, experienced so much trauma, her father, her dancing master, her sister. He knew she was serious in her wish for the deaths of the men and women she listed. He had seen her face when The Hound appeared, knew how much she hated him for holding her back from attacking Clegane herself when he had bested Beric.

Arya was still a child, whether she admitted it or not, whether she let others treat her that way or not. But sleep was the only time when she was truly, still that child, so he lay beside her, alert even in his own sleep, to ensure that minuscule moment of innocence was protected.

But now he was used to the critters, and found them oddly comforting. And while he missed Arya, and hoped that she rested more easily than she had when they had travelled together, he slept more freely and comfortably alone, beside his fire. Some nights he would lie awake a while, and stare up at the stars above, wondering at how many he could see, now that he was not looking at it through the murky skies above King’s Landing. Other nights, he would close his eyes and listen to the quiet, nocturnal sounds of the animals going about their nightly business around him.

Most nights, he slept, without waking. Without dreaming.

***

He was two weeks on the road, and he estimated still about a week’s travel from Harrenhall, when he met some travellers on the road. They were not the first he had encountered, but they were the first he was inclined to stop for. It was an older couple, around the same age as Garrick, and their cart had popped a wheel. The woman was sitting on the grassy verge, looking a little shaken, but the man flagged him down and Gendry slowed Batty to greet them.

“Good day, ser,” The older man said politely with a nod.

“Good day,” Gendry said with a nod in return, “Do you need some help?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble.” The man said. 

It was obvious that unless Gendry helped, they would not travel any further, and as safe as the roads had been for him, there were no guarantees. If he were to leave them, it could be a death sentence, and he did not need more deaths on his conscience. He dismounted and led Batty by the reins closer to inspect the cart.

“The axle is unbroken.” Gendry said, leaning over to see how bad the damage is. “Lucky. I wouldn’t be much help to you if it was.”

“The path down the road a bit is very rocky—“ The old man said, “I think it came loose there, and was like to fall off as it has if we went over a stone at the wrong angle. Betsy took a tumble when it broke.”

Gendry looked up at the woman, who looked pale, but otherwise uninjured. He clawed at his saddle bag and produced his wineskin. “I have some water,” He said, offering her the skin, but she waved him away.

“Oh I’m alright, child.” She said, “Just took a fright. I’ll be fine soon enough.”

“It’s no bother, really.” Gendry said, but decided not to press the issue further. Instead he  
offered her the reins. “If you could look after Batty. We’ll free your pony and get to work on fixing the cart, get you back on track.”

The woman agreed to that far more easily, taking Batty further into the field where there were luscious patches of clover for her to feast on.

Gendry and the older man— Satler — turned to the cart, and quickly proved to be an adept team. First they freed the pony, Posie, which Satler took over to join Batty and his wife in the clover field. Then Gendry lifted the cart so Satler could free the broken wheel, which had become jammed beneath the body of the cart.

As they worked, they talked quietly, sharing news of the road. Satler seemed happy of Gendry’s report of a quiet journey so far— they were heading to The Whispers, another port town further up the coast from Rook’s Rest. Satler was a pedlar, who mostly sold spices, but occasionally dabbled in metal work and fabrics, and said they expected a new shipment of goods from Pentos within the month.

In return, Satler shared his own account of the journey, which seemed slightly less auspicious for Gendry’s progress. As expected, the further inland he travelled, the more Lannister soldiers he was likely to encounter. “They’re roaming the countryside freely from King’s Landing to Casterley Rock and further north of Riverrun.” Sadler said, inspecting the wheel for damage. It was covered in a lot of mud, but to Gendry’s eye seemed solid enough. It just needed to be reattached to the axle more securely.

“What of the Tully army? The Starks?” Gendry asked quietly, “Do they not prevent them?”

“There are no such armies,” Satler said, “Not after the Red Wedding. The northmen have sulked back north, what’s left of them. And the Blackfish is holding Riverrun with the last of the Tully army… But if you don’t have anything of value the Lannister’s mostly leave you be.” And at that point, Satler sized him up, running a critical eye across his frame, focussing for a disconcerting length of time on his face.

“No I think you’ll be safe. You’re a big bloke, but not as large as they say The Hound is, and you haven’t the scars they say he has.”

“The Hound?” Gendry asked, heart freezing in his chest.

“Aye, the King’s sworn bannerman turned craven at the Battle of Blackwater and escaped and has been killing Lannister soldiers wherever he meets them. There is a bounty on his head… Well, I suppose I should say the late King’s sworn bannerman now. They say Joffrey is dead. Killed at his own wedding.”

 _Balon Greyly. Joffrey Baratheon. Robb Stark._ The sultry, seductive voice of the Red Woman echoed darkly, hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Not another one.

“Another king?” Gendry managed to say.

“Did you not know?” Satler asked, surprised.

“Rook’s Rest doesn’t get the news very quickly. And even if it did, I mostly kept to myself.” Gendry said, knowing that it was a bad excuse, but it was all that he could really say. In another world, in another time, Joffrey Baratheon could have been his brother. They were of an age, and no matter how despicable Arya had found him, it seemed different now, knowing of their shared paternity.

“Well I can hardly hold it against you, not knowing.” Satler said with a shrug. “Kings are dropping like flies as it is. It’s hard enough to keep up.”

“He was my age,” Gendry mused.

“Aye, I had that same thought about Robert when he died, though in truth he was a bit younger than me. It just goes to show that no matter who we are, highborn, lowborn or somewhere in between, the Stranger comes for us all, eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter... Gendry reunites with a familiar face...

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly based on show canon, littered with what knowledge I have of the books. I am slowly reading them at the moment. I have an outline for this story, and a few chapters already written, but I am loathe to commit to a publishing schedule I won't be able to keep. Any mistakes are my own. Please let me know what you think!


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